


Go Gently (There and Back Again)

by WednesdaysDaughter



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun was low on the horizon; night had come and gone without so much as a whimper. Shadows danced across the canvas next to Bilbo’s cot and he could no longer lie idle with so much agony rushing through his veins. There were more goodbyes yet to be made, and the next ones would leave Bilbo mute from sunrise to sunset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Gently (There and Back Again)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a few months ago and with the release of the BoFA trailer I decided that I had to finish it. I also created a fanmix if you feel like crying even more: http://8tracks.com/orionsdaughter/go-gently

The cool breeze brought with it the smell of rot and ruin as the sun shone brightly upon freshly dug graves yet to be filled with the fallen.

Canvas tents peppered the battlefield, used as shelter from the elements and safe havens for those far from home and those with no home to return to. As blood watered the ground, grass and dirt tacky with it, the many covered with a mixture of Earth and viscera longed for the rains to come soon and wash away the clawing smell of decay.

It was a controlled kind of chaos as the wounded were dragged from underneath the dead and the living consoled and healed and mourned for the loss in every direction. Agonizing cries filtered through the clearing from medical tents and soldiers well enough to walk wandered aimlessly through the maze of bodies; some unrecognizable until turned over and their race revealed. Brothers called for brothers, kin crying out upon the finding of their blood strewn about the ground as if they were sacks of flour and not beings that once laughed around a warm fire.

Bilbo Baggins paid little attention to these matters; war was no place for a hobbit, and yet there he was.

He locked a part of himself away as he was led to a tent – larger than the rest, if only by a little. Bilbo held himself together like the finely sewn stitches of his old coat as the flaps were pulled away and a gruesome sight greeted him. Words failed Bilbo as he slowly approached the cot which bore the mangled body of Thorin Oakenshield. The rightful king of the mountain lay dying and neither stone nor ring could save him.

Throat clogged with emotion, grief and sorrow warring in his small body to be heard first, Bilbo reached out to hold Thorin’s hand and he clung to it through their goodbye.

“Farewell, good thief,” Thorin began – eyes settling on Bilbo though he could not see the defining features he had come to admire over hill and dale. “I go now to the halls of waiting; to sit beside my fathers until the world is renewed.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, but Thorin raised a shaky hand to hush his words.

“Oh Bilbo, there is not enough time for me to say all I want, but know that I wish to part in friendship from you and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate for they were spoken in a madness that was dormant in my bones, yet held no truth in my soul.”

“I would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt you.”

Bilbo clung to Thorin’s hand and bent his head for he could not look at the dwarf before him without cursing the names of the creators that gave them both life and seemed bent on taking it away. His knees screamed in agony upon the cold ground, but he held firm and managed to choke out words that could never be enough.

“Farewell, King under the Mountain. This is a bitter adventure, if it must end so; and not a mountain of gold – or cursed stone – can mend it. Yet I am glad that I gave shared in your perils, that I have shared in your life Thorin – for that gift has been more than any Baggins deserves.”

“No!” Thorin cried and when his other hand found purchase on Bilbo’s face, his eyes softened and he mustered the strength to wipe away a stray tear.

“There is more in you of good than you know child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

Bilbo hid his face in Thorin’s bloody hand and sobbed softly. His lips scraped across the calloused flesh, forming his name over and over again until it was all Bilbo knew of the waking world.

When Thorin spoke for the last time his words hung in the tent and wrapped themselves around Bilbo until he could scarcely breathe.

“But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Do not weep my burglar; for you have stolen much more than the heart of the mountain and as I pass into the Great Halls I wish you keep mine with you always ‘til we meet again in the everlasting lands of peace. With my heart, take my blessing Bilbo and my love for I would give all once gifted to me to live just one more day with you. Farewell.”

While the breath had not left Thorin Oakenshield completely, his strength had fled on quiet wings and his hand fell from Bilbo’s face with his eyes. Bilbo wept until his body ran out of tears and then his bones shook in overwhelming grief until exhaustion claimed him.

Someone pulled him off Thorin’s body and tucked him into a smaller tent, not far from where Thorin and his nephews laid. Bilbo awoke hours later to a sound he could not identify at first, but upon realizing his aching throat and dry lips he realized his grief was pouring out through faint moans and whimpers that would not be silenced – even in sleep.

The sun was low on the horizon; night had come and gone without so much as a whimper. Shadows danced across the canvas next to Bilbo’s cot and he could no longer lie idle with so much agony rushing through his veins. There were more goodbyes yet to be made, and the next ones would leave Bilbo mute from sunrise to sunset.

Fili and Kili looked as if sleeping, their skin cleansed of dirt and blood that cloaked them in battle. They laid but inches apart, hands tilted outward as if searching for each other in the darkness. Bilbo kneelt between them and said nothing for hours: His words seemed inadequate for the grief threatening to strike him down with a ferocity greater than any Orc blade or dragon fire.

His vigil was interrupted once by a dwarf he did not recognize.

Before he could be tossed from the princes’ side, Dwalin appeared with wild eyes and crushing grip and forced the strange dwarf far from Bilbo’s grief with snarls and threats in Khuzdul. Bilbo was too numb to thank Dwalin that night when he finally emerged from the tent, but he silently inclined his head and Dwalin returned the gesture.

Gandalf found Bilbo sitting in his tent with Bofur and Bifur, offering not words of comfort, but rather existing in the same space and sharing the heartache by humming a song long forgotten by many dwarves.

“I suppose my job is done. Is it time to leave Gandalf?”

The weight of Gandalf’s gaze made Bilbo’s skin itch but it was the look on Bofur’s face that made him look down in shame. No, he could not leave yet.

Days passed before all the dead were identified and buried.

The day of Thorin’s burial was the hardest of Bilbo’s life, for he wanted nothing more than to vanish into the air and ride the wind far from the Lonely Mountain. He stood in the front of the mourners, pulled by Balin and Dwalin until he had a clear view of the tomb Thorin would rest forever more.

Bard came forward and laid the Arkenstone upon Thorin’s breast and Bilbo bit his lips until they stung.

“There let it lie ‘til the Mountain falls. May it bring good fortune to all his folk that dwell here after.”

Thranduil’s white hair shone in the darkness like the blade of Orchrist he placed upon Thorin’s tomb. Though he offered no words, his hand caressed the tomb and Bilbo watched his head incline ever so slightly that he was sure he was the only one to catch the action.

Fili and Kili were entombed next to their uncle and at last Bilbo gained courage enough to approach their graves. For days he had sought greenery and when he’d given up hope his eyes caught a sprig of snow white flowers where it was told in stories much later than Thorin Oakenshield fell in battle.

On each tomb Bilbo placed a single white flower and his tears fell softly upon the stone.

With the next morning came the dividing of treasure and Bilbo had no care for what felt like blood money, gems and gold he’d trade in a heartbeat for the lives of Thorin, Fili, and Kili. In the end he accepted two small chests, taking not only the treasures within but the praise and thanks of Dain, the newly crowned King of the Mountain.

“I would reward you most richly of all,” Dain claimed and Bilbo found little happiness in his announcement, but accepted it with all the grace he could muster.

“Very kind of you, but I have no idea how I would transport it all home without more death and bloodshed. I am sure it will be much better left in your hands.”

“If that is your wish, but know though you carry little gold, you carry the thanks of my kin from now until the end of all days.”

Dain bowed and Bilbo returned the gesture quite flustered.

When the sun rose the next day, Bilbo’s belongings were packed and he faced the company for what he believed would be the last time. He took in their faces, dark circles and shallow smiles – their grief an armor they wore proudly and without hesitation.

Bilbo saw his own sadness in their eyes and wondered if goodbyes to the living were much harder than those to the dead.

“Farewell Balin and farewell Dwalin; and farewell Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. May your beards never grow thin.”

His eyes were wet with tears as he turned to face the mountain and he raised a trembling hand and spoke clearly, “And farewell Thorin Oakenshield! And Fili and Kili. May your memory never fade.”

Several eyes of the company were misty as they waved at Bilbo. They bowed deeply, beards touching the dirt and hearts in their throats wrestled with their goodbyes.

“Goodbye and good luck, wherever you fare!”

Bofur handed Ori a handkerchief and smiled wetly when Ori blew his nose loudly and unapologetic in his grief. Bifur sent Bilbo off with a poem and Balin’s words carried above the commotion.

“If you ever visit us again, when our halls are made fair once more, then the feast shall indeed be splendid.”

Bilbo could barely contain his laughter though it turned to sobs as his lips stumbled over the words he had to say before he vanished from the mountain.

“If ever you are passing my way, don’t wait to knock! Tea is at four; but any of you are welcome any time.”

Gandalf kept a firm hand on Bilbo’s shoulders to keep him marching forward with Thranduil’s company. When they reached the Mirkwood Bilbo was named elf-friend and he stammered his way around a thanks before Gandalf ushered him from the healing woods.

Through the winter they stayed with Beorn and on days his heart bled less severely, Bilbo told the shifter of his travels towards the mountain and of the company of dwarves he loved deeply and without regret. He slept poorly for the first weeks; dreaming of a dark abyss and dragon fire scorching his skin. He dreamed of Thorin alive and well, only to be thrown into madness by a sparkling stone caked in dark blood. He dreamed of a cheerful Fili and Kili struck down in mid song, their choked off melody ringing in his ears long after he woke.

Spring came slowly and was welcomed warmly by Bilbo who longed for his garden and the buds that were going to start blooming soon. With a quick glance back towards a mountain he could barely see on the horizon, Bilbo turned to Gandalf and grabbed his walking stick.

”So comes snow after fire and even dragons have their ending. My journey is complete my friend and I long for my armchair.”

They traveled forwards and spent many weeks in Rivendell, for Bilbo had not been given the chance to truly enjoy the House of Elrond during his first visit. He listened to songs of Smaug’s defeat and told his own tales that would be turned into even more songs. Bilbo talked to Lord Elrond of his nightmares, of the pain in his heart he feared would never heal, and found comfort in Lord Elrond’s kindness as well as his words of wisdom.

“Death is survivable Master Baggins, by those left behind to mourn and live with memories of ghosts. But do not let your heart become a ruin, a place haunted by sadness. Let it grow into a lush garden of laughter and love for those who pass on never leave us. Celebrate the life of Thorin Oakenshield and his brave nephews for they would not wish you to waste away on their account.”

Days passed slowly like sap on a tree until Bilbo found his feet planted on the last road.

It was more quiet than his first venture into the woods and when they came upon the Troll’s hoard of gold they split it into bags and continued onward. When at last they came upon the Shire, Bilbo was struck suddenly in the heart by an emotion he could not name but it showed on his face and in his voice.

“My dear Bilbo, I warned you of this and though I hoped you would fare better I see now I was wrong. You are not the hobbit you were and for that I am deeply sorry.”

“Oh Gandalf, I do not believe I will ever be able to thank you for what you did that day and the days after. I would not trade my adventure for anything in the world and I am all the better for it.”

With those parting words, Bilbo walked down the hill and caused a stir not seen in the Shire for many decades. It’s not every day a hobbit comes back from the dead. The days that followed were another adventure of sorts for Bilbo as he hunted down his belongings and took back Bag End with more passion and ferocity seen in any Halfling.

Once his belongings were mostly returned to his possession, peace settled over Bilbo like his mother’s old shawl and he began to write.

He wrote in the garden when Bag End felt like a prison and we wrote in the middle of the night when nightmares hovered behind his eyelids. He wrote about the stubbornness of dwarves and the bravery of hobbits and the carelessness of Elves when wine was involved. He wrote of spiders and Orcs and goblins and when he wrote of Gollum, he kept the ring close. He wrote of the King of the Mountain, but kept some things to himself.

He kept Fili’s kingly heart and Kili’s wicked smile a secret as well as Ori’s charming innocence and Dwalin’s fierce protectiveness coupled with Balin’s roguish humor around the campfire. He told no one of Bofur’s warmth or Bifur’s ability to carve a masterpiece in a blink of an eye. He did not write about Bombur’s ability to create a delicious treat with the most unlikely of supplies nor of Nori’s willingness to teach him how to pick locks and pockets. He forgot to talk about Dori’s fondness for flowers; especially blue ones and Bilbo would keep Thorin’s secret smiles to himself until his dying day.

His dwarves lived in the ink that stained his hands and shirts as well as the pantry that felt too full until the day Bilbo left Bag End for good. They ran around the halls and sang by the fireplace and when he was feeling particularly cheerful, Bilbo could hear the clink of china being thrown through the air.

Years passed and Bilbo’s nightmares had left, leaving behind only long nights spent sharing a pipe with Thorin and chasing after Fili and Kili as they teased him.

One autumn day found Bilbo with unexpected company once more and they were received with overwhelming joy and the day was spent reminiscing of times long passed.

Balin spoke of the Mountain’s growing wealth and of Lake Town’s booming prosperity. Bilbo talked of family affairs – including the wedding of a beloved cousin and of his healthy garden which was doing better and better each spring.

Gandalf did not speak much, but his relief at finding Bilbo in good health and spirits was felt by all in Bag End.

“I hope you are not the last to visit me,” Bilbo said and Balin laughed.

“If Ori had not been so desperately needed as a scribe he would have gladly joined me on my journey here. I have a good feeling that I shall not be the last dwarf to grace your good halls Master Baggins, fret not.”

Balin stayed a week and was on his way with a handful of letters addressed to those in the company who were unable to make their way West. He did not give Balin the letters he wrote to Thorin, nor the ones with Fili and Kili’s names on them for they were not to be read, only written.

It would be many more years before Bilbo would receive the company of a dwarf, but the party would be greater with Bofur, Ori, and Bifur at his kitchen table and even more wild when Dwalin, Nori, and Bombur knocked on his door not fifteen years after their journey together. Bilbo often thought of traveling back to the Lonely Mountain, he dreamed of it, and he could taste the cool air in his mouth on nights he could not sleep.

It called to him much like a siren in the dark, but every time he made his mind to go, something came up.

At last he put his trip on a lengthy hold when his cousins Drogo and Primula died, leaving behind a son named Frodo who would fill the corridors of Bag End with laughter and an endless curiosity much like Bilbo’s own when he was a child.

“Uncle Bilbo, tell me a story.”

“You’ve heard them all my good boy!” Bilbo exclaimed as he tucked Frodo into bed.

“I know, but I cannot sleep. I am not tired yet.”

Bilbo sighed in mock frustration, but his smile betrayed his eagerness.

“Which one would you like to hear?”

Frodo pretended to think about it for a minute, before his eyes lit up and he said dreamily, “The one of the great Dwarf King and his quest to reclaim his home.”

“That one again? Well, it shows you have good taste I’ll give you that.”

Frodo preened under Bilbo’s words and settled down for his favorite story.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

Bilbo’s voice continued into the night, never fading or tiring until Frodo could not keep his eyes open.

“That’s it my boy, time to sleep.”

Bilbo tucked the blanket under Frodo’s chin and made to leave, but Frodo’s voice stopped him.

“Do you miss him? King Thorin?”

Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat at the question and a dull throb began behind his ribs as he nodded.

“Very much so.”

“Like I miss Mama and Papa?” Frodo asked and Bilbo immediately sat down and soothed a hand over a wrinkle in the quilt Frodo lay under.

“In a way, yes.”

“Will it hurt forever Uncle?”

At this, Bilbo paused and recalled what Lord Elrond told him years ago back in Rivendell.

“I won’t lie to you Frodo, losing someone you love hurts for a very long time and some days it hurts more than others. However, it is a pain that becomes less and less present as time passes until one day all you feel is happiness when you think of them. You must fill your heart with good memories Frodo and let them grow into trees that not even the Gods could rip out of the ground. Their roots will forever be planted in our hearts my dear boy and their love for us a light in the darkest of nights.”

And with that Bilbo pressed a kiss onto Frodo’s forehead and left for his study to write some more. He wrote until the sun kissed his face and shone through his colored glass. Bilbo stretched and peeked in to make sure Frodo was still sleeping before looking out towards his garden with soft eyes.

“One day my heart, one day,” he mumbled to a ghost before heading into the kitchen to start breakfast.

A cool gust of wind brought with it the smell of pipe smoke and the echo of twin laughter as the sun shone brightly upon a lone oak tree that stood proud amongst a row of vibrant Gladiolus.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun taking quotes/text from The Hobbit and adding to it/tweaking it for my story but I tried very hard to keep the tone similar and I hope I succeeded. I promise next time to write a "everybody lives/no one dies & Bilbo stays in Erebor" fic because I cannot ever to this again.
> 
> Stay strong Tolkien fandom, we will survive this together.


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